May 9, 2010

A different-feeling Mother's Day

Last year this was the beginning of my Mother's Day post:

I want to wish all of the working moms, stay-at-home moms, moms of public-school children, homeschooling moms, moms of one or of many children, moms-to-be, moms who really need to catch a break, moms who have it all together, moms of every shape, size and color ... a Happy Mother's Day.

I also want us each to take a few moments today and pray for those who have lost their mothers, those who are estranged from their mothers, those who desperately WANT to be mothers, and mothers who have lost children. What a hard day this can be when you wish you could celebrate it, but your heart or your circumstances won't allow it. If you fall into ANY category that means that Mother's Day is a difficult day for you, know that others are thinking of and praying for you today.

And THIS year, I start writing with a much heavier heart. This year our family experienced a loss of great magnitude, and as I woke up this morning, my heart broke for my Aunt Kathryn and Uncle Ben all over again. It hasn't even been a month since they lost Kyser, who wasn't much older than Nathaniel when he wrote me this note (I saved most of the letters Kyser and Harry wrote me growing up):

Dear Katherine and Grayson, I had fun at the pool. It was great. I also had fun at Chuck E. Cheese. Were a kid can be a kid. We have also had fun with the sand art you gave Harry for his birthday. Your fishy, Kyser. P.S. I realy like your new house.

So while last year's Mother's Day sentiment still stands, today feels like a very different kind of Mother's Day to me. I am infinitely more aware of how fortunate I am to have my boys, that they're literally and figuratively close to me today. My breaths will be deeper today. My patience will last longer. My arms will be open wider. My hugs will be tighter.

I started practicing all of that last night. After all the guests from the T-ball party left, I stayed out in the backyard pitching the baseball to the boys until long after dark, until they couldn't see to hit anymore and I couldn't see the ball as it came sailing cleanly into my face. Until I tripped over the 2-year-old under my feet and landed face-first in the grass and came up looking around wildly, wondering what the heck had just happened. As a matter of fact, that's the way I feel a lot these days ... like the breath has been knocked out of me and I've got a mouthful of grass and a toddler squished under my mid-section. But I wouldn't have it any other way.